


In a Perfect World

by AngiePen



Category: Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, Humor, M/M, Romance, Stand-Up Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngiePen/pseuds/AngiePen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric's trying to break into acting while doing comedy clubs and some modeling to pay the bills.  Just after he's met a guy who might become someone special, if only he has time to find out, he gets a chance at what might be his big break, but it'd force him to stay locked in the closet for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Perfect World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afra_schatz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afra_schatz/gifts).



> Written for the 2011 Slashababy fic fest for afra-schatz. I'd never thought about Eric and Viggo together before, but I like both of them, so I decided to give it a shot.
> 
> Request: Eric Bana/Viggo would be awesome but Orlando/Sean B., Karl/Sean B., Karl/Viggo or Bernard/Sean B. are great as well. Requested genres: (well, some of this is only sort of a genre :)) contemporary AUs, NZ timed fic, smut, and/or est!relationship. I'm not much for angst, h/c and really kinky stuff.

Eric checked the address on his phone one more time, noted the building across the street, then went to find a place to park. While roaming the nearby streets, hunting for a gap in the cars lining the curbs, a panicky voice in the back of his head was babbling at him to turn around, go back home, get a day job flipping burger's at McD's or stocking shelves at WalMart or _something_ else, _anything_ else.

He told that part of his mind to shut the fuck up.

After having come halfway around the damn planet looking for a shot at the movies, he needed flexibility in his schedule, and huge corporate behemoths weren't known for their flexibility, especially when it came to peon-level employees.

Besides, asking people if they wanted fries with their burger was just... no. He might as well go home to Australia if he was going to sink that low.

He spotted a spot a couple of buildings farther on, and managed to beat out a woman in an SUV. Hah! You lose today, lady!

While he hiked back to the building he wanted, his brain tried to work on him again.

What if this gets out? the voice in his head asked. It's exactly the sort of thing that always does, or seems to. It'd haunt you for the rest of your career.

On the other hand, a slightly different voice pointed out, if you get tossed out of your apartment and end up living in your car, you'd have a hard time building any kind of career in the first place. He imagined trying to get ready for an audition from inside his Volvo. Yeah, no.

You could drop your gym membership, said the not-quite panicked voice. That'd pay for the surprise rent increase, thank you very much Mr. Brasswell you bastard.

Sure, the second voice snarked, but as an unknown Aussie actor in a sea of American and Canadian actors all scrambling for parts, your buffed-out bod is a selling point; you can't afford to lose that.

Aha -- there was the right address. He'd been on the wrong block.

He trotted up the steps to what looked like yet another industrial conversion. A scuffed up directory on one side of the narrow entry way sent him to a freight elevator and up to the fourth floor where Mortensen Photography was shooting a calendar.

You can still go home, the voice in Eric's brain nagged.

Shut up, fuck off, leave me alone.

You'll be sorry, said the voice.

Shut _up!_

He knocked on a big steel door, and half a minute later it slid open. A middle-aged guy with messy brown hair and smile lines around his eyes looked him up and down and said, "Bana? Awesome. Head shot doesn't do you justice. Come on in."

"Umm, thanks." Eric had to grin as he stepped inside.

See?! said the second voice. You need that gym membership!

The first voice just sulked.

Inside, the studio was one huge space. Right in front of the door, a small reception area had been blocked off with a couple of rolling partitions. The desk was a six-foot folding table, with a phone and a laptop and a scattering of papers and letters and folders and other office supplies on it. There was a four-drawer filing cabinet next to it, and an empty rolling chair behind it.

The guy, who Eric was just assuming was the photographer, Mortensen, since he hadn't introduced himself, grabbed a folder off the table and shoved it into Eric's hands, then led him around the partitions to the bulk of the space. More tables were piled with files and prints and boxes, a few cameras, some odds and ends of what looked like props and costume bits, and stuff that might be parts of lights but Eric wasn't sure. In a corner that had to be right on the opposite side of the reception area was another space about the same, blocked off with more partitions, and next to that, up against the an outside wall, was a fridge lined up beside a table that had a coffee maker and associated stuff on it.

Two main photo areas were set up, each with its own stands and lights and different colored drapes. One featured a kingsize bed made up with messy red silk sheets, looking like someone -- or maybe several someones -- had just rolled out of it. The other featured a huge armchair, extra wide and deeply upholstered in black leather.

The chair had two sets of handcuffs on it, like someone had taken them off and tossed them onto the seat before walking away.

Eric's first brain-voice was back and it was screaming again.

He reminded it how much living out of his car would suck, and it faded to some vague grumbling and dire predictions of how sorry he would be that he hadn't listened.

"If you could fill that out," said the guy who was probably Mortensen, "we can get going."

Eric looked around, then squatted down in front of a semi-clear spot on one of the tables, pulled out a pen and started filling in forms.

"You said you'd done this before, but didn't give a lot of details."

It was just a comment, but Eric felt obliged to answer. At least he didn't have to look the guy in the eye, since he was still writing. "I said I've been in front of the camera before, and I have. I've done some acting and a lot of comedy -- I had a sketch comedy show in Australia for a couple of seasons -- so I know about hitting marks and not freaking when the camera's on me. I haven't actually modeled, though, not as such."

"I bet whenever you say that, the person asks you to say something funny."

Eric could hear the smile in the guy's voice, and had to smirk in agreement. "Yeah, mostly. I got a few lines I use -- wanna hear 'em?"

"Nah, just wanted to make sure you were prepared."

Which made Eric grin wider, 'cause that was a joke itself and not a bad one for an amateur tossing something off the cuff. "As prepared as I could be. Your ad said you were looking for beefcake, and I guess I qualify. I'm thinking of it as an acting job, and managed to convince myself I could play it." Which was a joke back, although not really, and he hoped the guy didn't get mad. Eric had known plenty of folks who could joke around about someone else's work, but turned into divas if anyone joked about their own.

"You'll do fine," said the guy. "If you've done acting, TV or film, you should be able to pick up the basics of still camera work. There's some overlap, and so long as you don't get a weird look on your face when I point the lens at you, I'm sure you'll do great."

"Umm, about that...." Eric was very glad he was still scribbling info onto a form, because this last bit might just get him thrown out. "I, umm, was wondering if there was any way you could, like, maybe not show my face? I mean, you're going for the bod anyway, right?"

There were a few moments of silence, then the guy said, "Depends. When you're done there, strip down and let me see what I've got to work with."

"What?" Eric stood up and turned, forms forgotten. "Wait, I don't need it _that_ bad! I mean, if that's the price of--"

"Chill out! For chrissakes, you're jumpy! I meant what I said -- if you don't want your face to show, then I'm going to have to emphasize something else -- shoulders, arms, chest, abs, ass, legs, some combination of the above. From what I can see through your clothes, that shouldn't be an insurmountable problem, but I need to take a look before I'm sure."

"Oh. Umm, sorry, I just... I'm nervous and it's making me a bit stupid. I guess." Eric felt his face heat, and he ducked back down and picked up the pen once more, hoping the blush would go away before he was done.

"No problem. I've worked with a few newbies before. Sometimes it's worth it and sometimes it's not. Just your shoulders and ass alone should be worth it."

"Umm, thanks," Eric said without looking up. He was wondering whether he could ask for any more forms to fill out, because his blush felt like it was going to stick around a while.

Despite his best procrastination, Eric had to turn around and hand the folder back far too soon. While the guy flipped through the sheets, Eric said, "Just to check, you _are_ Viggo Mortensen the photographer, right?"

The guy blinked at him, then laughed. "Yeah, sorry. I get distracted sometimes and details get left behind. Okay, you hit all the blanks. So, let's see what we have to work with?"

Oh, right.

Eric looked around, not sure what he was looking for, but whatever it was he didn't find it. There wasn't anyone else around, though, and the only windows were high up overhead, so what the hell. He pulled his T-shirt off while toeing off his sneakers.

"Mmm, very nice. Good definition." Viggo was circling him, a slow step at a time. Eric fumbled with his trouser button, wondering yet again whether he was being stupid, but when Viggo came back around into view, his expression was thoughtful instead of leering, so... come on, keep going.

Button, zip, shove, kick. He hesitated a second, then shoved his boxer briefs off and forced himself to stand straight, arms a little spread and definitely _not_ covering up his junk, 'cause that'd just be stupid and unprofessional and would make him look like a squeally little girl, right?

Viggo took another prowl around him, then said, "Not a problem at all. In fact, if the calendar shots go well, I could probably give you some more work on another project."

"Great, thanks." It seemed the right thing to say, but Eric was wondering exactly what kind of work Viggo meant.

"All right," said Viggo, grabbing one of the cameras from a table and checking... whatever it was professional photographers checked. Eric took pictures with his phone and that was about it. Viggo waved a hand toward the bed and continued, "Hop on up and give me some poses. Pretend your lover has just walked in the door."

"Eep?" said Eric.

Viggo grinned. "I want to see how you move, what your instincts are like, what shapes you make when left to yourself. I don't really expect anything usable to come out of this first set, but if so, great. I'll crop your face out if it shows; I already said that wasn't a problem."

"Um, naked? I didn't know it was that kind of calendar. I mean, beefcake yeah, but the, uh, full monty?"

"I'll crop that out too," said Viggo. "Damn shame, and it might not leave much of the picture after it's gone, but I'll do what I can." He gave Eric a twinkling smile and Eric did his best to smile back.

He was blushing again, he could tell. At least he didn't have to worry about _that_ being immortalized for posterity.

Eric turned away and looked at the bed. It was big and messy, but the sheets weren't stained, or even really creased. It looked like someone had made it up with clean sheets, then deliberately mussed it about just for the look of it, rather than actually slept -- or whatever -- there earlier. And since when had Eric gotten that dainty?

What the fuck, just go for it.

He yelled, "Hee-yah!" and threw himself onto the bed in a flying leap, arms and legs spread and knees bent just enough to keep from mashing anything vital. He hit in a roll and ended up against the half-dozen pillows up near the headboard, spread out and grinning.

Viggo was snapping off shots. "Great, keep going."

What the hell, this was just warm up anyway, right? It wasn't like anything would be good enough to use this soon.

Eric remembered the last time he'd had a steady lover, the last time they'd had sex, the hot, sticky fun of it all, and gave a wicked smile. Click-click-click. He rolled over onto all fours, glanced over his shoulder, then shifted so he was lying across the bed on his side.

He rolled onto his stomach again, then stretched out, long and slow and tight, fists straight out over his head and toes pointed and everything in between taut and arched. Then he relaxed and let his head droop off the side of the mattress, hands dangling toward the floor.

Click-click-click.

"Great, good stuff. I think you're warmed up enough -- any more and the bed'll catch on fire."

Eric had to laugh, and he turned his head in time to catch Viggo smirking from behind the camera lens.

Viggo walked over to a table and picked up a length of holly garland, then approached the bed. "Turn so you're facing the headboard, on your stomach. Diagonally just a little. Good, now spread your legs -- no, not that much... right there, yeah."

Eric settled into the position, and a moment late he felt the holly being draped across his thighs. He yelped at the pointy leaves poking into delicate skin, but Viggo said, "Just hang on, once it's settled it'll just itch a little. There."

The holly felt like it was spread across the tops of his thighs, just below his butt. The garland would leave his ass showing, but hide anything that might make the calendar NC-17. He heard Viggo's footsteps backing away, then click-click-click again, from different angles.

"Great, now roll over."

Eric obeyed, and Viggo draped the holly over his junk.

"Christmassy fig leaf?"

He got a wink in responses, and "More or less."

Viggo took a few shots, had Eric sit propped up on his elbows, then put his arms and hands into various positions -- over his navel, just beside it, just above it; over one nipple, over a nipple but with his fingers spread, on and on while the camera clicked.

There seemed to be an endless supply of props -- a Santa hat, a reindeer-antler headband, a little tuxedo-thong with a tiny poinsetta flower in one corner, a dozen walnut-sized jingle bells strung on a leather strap....

Viggo took a dozen shots of Eric on his stomach and on his side with his wrists bound behind him by the jingle-bell strap, which had a very sturdy buckle. That one had Eric kind of fidgety; he'd never been into bondage type stuff at all, but his cock was half hard by the time they were through and the contradiction was something he'd have liked to have some private time to think about.

Models didn't get private time, though, so after a brief break for a bottle of water, they were on to the next prop, which was a huge red bow draped across Eric's hips, covering what Eric assumed was meant to be the present. Viggo didn't say anything about Eric's semi-swollen state while adjusting the poufy bow, and Eric was incredibly grateful.

By the time they were done it was almost dinner time and Eric was worn out. "Move" and "Stretch" and "More" and "Hold that" were a lot harder work than he'd thought they'd be.

But finally they were done. Viggo unwrapped the mile and a half of tiny colored lights Eric had been wrapped in for the last set of shots, then said, "That's it. I know I'll get something good out of that. Hell, I could probably make a whole calendar with just you, and the customers would be clamoring for copies."

"Umm, thanks." Eric was back to blushing. He turned away to get dressed, while Viggo packed props and fussed with his cameras behind Eric's back.

While pulling on his slacks, Eric noticed that he was getting dressed a lot more slowly than he would've a few hours earlier. Spending... he checked his watch and stared at the time -- four and a half hours naked or mostly naked in front of someone, feeling their very professional and impersonal hands on you on and off for the entire time, had done a lot to get Eric to relax about the whole naked issue. That was good, right?

"Good job," said Viggo from right behind him. Eric jumped just a little, then turned around and saw him standing there, holding out an envelope. "I'm definitely interested in working with you again, if you want more modelling jobs."

"Umm, yeah, it was interesting." Smooth, Bana, Eric thought with a mental wince. "I really wasn't sure what I was getting into, and I think it pushed some of my boundaries a little, but that's always good, right? It's another performing art, and the skills feed each other."

Viggo nodded and said, "Yeah, I imagine they do. And you definitely loosened up as we went. Mostly." Eric caught a fraction of a grin and Viggo's crow's feet deepened for just a second. "I was going to head out to get some dinner. Want to come along? If you have plans, that's fine."

"Uhh, sure. That sounds good. I didn't have anything in particular planned, and I'm definitely hungry."

"Great. Let me clean up here and we can head out."

 

An hour later, Eric was sitting in a booth across from Viggo in a little place that'd be a gastro-pub if it were newer or hipper. As it was, they had a nice dark beer on tap and a short menu of good bar food, plus a few things Eric had never heard of. The remains of a swiss-mushroom burger and steak fries were strewn around a paper-lined plastic basket in front of Eric, and a half-full pint -- his second one -- sat to one side. Viggo was still working on a rice-and-chicken dish called paiella that'd come in a shallow metal pan a good foot across.

They'd been talking about work -- comparing jobs, shallow stuff, nothing really specific -- and then segued over to movies they liked, some sports talk, and then an enthusiastic conversation about politics, where Eric insisted the US needed mandatory voting and Viggo argued that if a government couldn't inspire its citizens to participate then it needed more of an overhaul than mandatory voting could give it. After they disagreed on that for a while, Eric changed the subject to cars, then Viggo shifted it to horses.

Viggo seemed to be a good guy, the sort of man Eric wouldn't mind hanging out with to drink beer, watch football (even if they'd be rooting for opposing teams) and all that.

While Viggo was scraping the bottom of his pan, though, he said, "So what do you think of modelling for me again? I have another job lined up next week that you'd suit, and I could use another guy."

Eric switched his brain back into work mode and asked, "What kind of job? Another calendar? I imagine it's the season for it."

"Actually, most calendars were shot a couple of months ago, latest. This one you just did is going to sell as a fund-raiser for an AIDS hospice. Smaller organizations usually run on shorter schedules; they take more time to get the money together, and once they're ready to go, they don't have as much bureaucracy to hack through as the bigger corporate clients."

"Makes sense, I guess. I never really thought about it. So what's the next job?"

"Adam and Steve Forever's spring catalog. Another small company, but they have some good products."

Eric blinked. "Umm, I've never heard of them. What do they sell?"

Viggo grinned, and leaned forward on his folded arms. "Sex toys, sexy clothes, some bondage gear. Nothing seriously hardcore, but it's always a fun shoot."

Eric stifled a snort and gave Viggo a suspicious squint. "I'm surprised you didn't wait till I was taking a slug of beer."

"Spit-takes are only funny when you're more than a couple of feet away," said Viggo with a perfectly straight face.

"Lucky for me, I guess." He eyerolled and took a deliberate slug of beer. "I don't suppose you'll be using any female models?"

"Nope. They have a companion catalog, Addy and Eve Forever, but we shot that one last month. And you wouldn't have qualified for that job anyway."

"No, I don't guess I would've." Eric thought about up-coming auditions, about his comedy club schedule, about living on the street in January instead of December. Even in LA, it got cold at night in winter, and he was still too tall to be able to sleep in his car for more than a quick nap.

Besides, he'd done some kinky stuff already, right? Some of the poses that day had been damn blatant, and bondage with jingle bells was still bondage, yeah? So he'd done it already and it hadn't been bad. He needed the money and... well, that was sort of it.

Maybe not _all_ of it -- Viggo was a nice looking bloke, in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way, and Eric's gaydar was pinging. It wasn't always completely reliable, but Viggo didn't seem to be trying to hide. He didn't swish, but he wasn't trying to hide, either.

"Sure, if it fits my schedule. When next week?"

Viggo's smile widened. "I'd need you on Wednesday and Thursday, maybe Friday. All day, eight to five, with an hour break for lunch."

"That works," said Eric. "I have a club date on Friday, but not until eight."

"Great, I'll expect you then, 8am."

Eric nodded and pulled out his phone to make a note.

Viggo finished his beer while Eric was entering his note on the calendar app. When he was done, Viggo said, "I have some better beer back at my place. Want to come over and try it?"

Well, that was... not really direct, per se, but pretty clear. Viggo was sitting back in his seat, relaxed and mellow, like he was okay with whatever Eric answered. And he'd said Eric could have more work before bringing up anything else; he didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd try to spring a trap and pull a casting couch play, either.

And he was nice looking. Older, but in good shape, nice smile, and just a good feeling about him. To Eric, that was more important than a perfect face or ripped abs.

"Sure," he said. "Always interested in trying a new beer. Or whatever."

Viggo smiled and said, "Cool." They paid the bill and headed out.

Eric followed Viggo out to a small, comfortably shabby house in Venice. The lawn needed mowing and the bushes were kind of raggedy, but it had stained glass windows with modern, abstract patterns and the front door looked like a custom job, different colors of hardwood pieced together into a mosaic that suggested wood grain, but magnified about twenty times. Eric thought it was gorgeous, but he was mentally piecing together a joke to tell about it -- I met a guy who spent five grand on a hand-made hardwood door done in a mosaic pattern to make it look like... wood. Not quite, but something in the neighborhood. The idea was a crack-up, even if the result in real life was beautiful. He'd have to remember to jot that down in his note pad when he had a chance to be discreet about it.

Viggo let them in and took Eric's jacket, which he tossed onto a bench near the door with his own. Then he said, "Beer now or later?"

Eric had to grin. "How about after?"

"Suits me." Viggo stepped forward, slipped a hand behind Eric's neck to coax his head down, and kissed him. Eric wrapped one arm around Viggo's waist, smoothed the other one over that messy hair and kissed back.

Just by how he looked in his clothes, Eric had known that Viggo wasn't chubby or anything, but feeling him, with a hand on his back and their fronts pressed together, he could tell that the man was lean and tight. Not ripped, so far as Eric could tell, but solid.

Viggo took a step backward, pulling Eric along. He broke the kiss long enough to say, "Bed," and then took another step. Eric followed, and they made their way through the entry way, down a hall and into a messy bedroom. It was slow and awkward, but the kissing and touching was enough to hold his interest and Eric didn't mind the delay in getting to the main event.

Viggo tugged Eric's T-shirt off while Eric worked on Viggo's buttons. That worked about as well as you might imagine, and they ended up in a laughing, grabbing, grappling tangle that eventually worked out to two naked men on a pile of discarded clothing, with a minimum of bruises.

Eric tried to crawl up onto the bed, but Viggo grabbed him halfway, when his body was up on the mattress but his knees were still on the floor. Eric felt his thighs pushed apart, and then one of his balls was suddenly sucked into a hot mouth that tightened down just enough. He yelped and saw stars.

As soon as Viggo opened his mouth for a breath, Eric scrambled forward and turned over, laughing and panting. "Get up here, you looney!"

"What?" Viggo asked with a smug grin. He crawled up onto the bed and over Eric's legs, running his hands up and down Eric's thighs. "You seemed to be having a good time."

"I'm glad you could tell, but I'd rather be able to reciprocate, at least a little. C'mere." Eric grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up so Viggo was lying flush on top of him, and latched on for another kiss while his hands roamed down Viggo's back and got a good grip on his ass.

Viggo hummed approval and scooted till he was sitting on his knees, his back bent to keep the kiss going. That gave him leverage to start rubbing his cock against Eric's, slow and firm. Both were erect and hard, and Eric felt like he could feel every molecule of Viggo's cock against his own. Viggo'd made some comments during the shoot about Eric's equipment, but from what Eric could tell by feel, Viggo didn't have anything to be ashamed of either.

He felt his balls tightening and he pulled his lips free to say, "Hang on, I don't want to come yet."

"No, that'd be bad," said Viggo, obviously in an agreeable mood. He leaned down and sucked one of Eric's nipples, then gave it a quick bite. Eric yelled and tried to buck him off just out of reflex, but Viggo had a good hold.

"You prick," Eric gasped. "Want this to last!"

"Fussy," teased Viggo. Then, "You pitch or catch?"

"Either, both, whatever," said Eric.

"Awesome." Viggo leaned over to rummage through the drawer of a nightstand, and came back with a tube of lube and a box of condoms. He squirted out a handful of slick and started working on his own passage, which... well, that was kind of surprising, but not in any kind of a bad way.

When Viggo was ready to go, he ripped open a condom and rolled it over Eric's erection, which definitely hadn't shrunk any while watching Viggo lube himself. Eric sat up, meaning to roll over on top of Viggo in whichever position the other guy preferred, but Viggo stopped him, and pushed him back down flat with both hands on his shoulders.

With a grin, Viggo straddled him, used one hand to aim, then sat back a little, with just a light pressure on Eric's cock. He shifted his hips with a satisfied "Hmmm..." sound, then leaned forward again and pinned Eric's forearms to the mattress on either side of his head.

Sparks zinged through Eric's nerves. He was bigger than Viggo, and more muscular; Viggo wasn't really "holding him down" in the strict sense of the term, and Eric knew that. He was sure Viggo knew it too. But still -- Viggo was holding him down. And fucking himself on Eric's cock, very, very slowly. All Eric could do, without using his strength to completely disrupt the configuration, which wasn't any kind of desirable option, was lie there and feel.

What he felt was torment -- hot, tight, maddeningly slow torment.

Viggo'd lubed himself up, but hadn't actually prepped; he wasn't stretched. He was stretching himself out on Eric's cock, one tiny, slow shift at a time, with an occasional wiggle thrown in just to drive Eric crazy. Eric was just barely inside him; he could tell the head of his cock hadn't passed through the still-tight ring of muscle yet. It felt like it was too tight -- _much_ too tight -- like it wasn't going to fit and nothing could make it. But with every other breath, a tiny bit more slipped inside.

A circular rotation of Viggo's hips had Eric moaning, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. Viggo ducked down and teased a nipple again with his lips and tongue, and a spasm jolted through Eric's body, jarring both of them.

"Whoa, boy!" Viggo jerked forward and ended up flat against Eric's chest, laughing and gasping.

"Then stop biting!" Eric ducked down for a kiss. Viggo tipped his head to meet him, and started easing himself down again.

"Uhhh.... I'm gonna pop, mate. Seriously, I am."

"Is that a complaint or just an observation?"

"Warning!" Eric bucked his hips and it was Viggo's turn to yelp as he came down a good inch and Eric felt the head of his cock slide all the way through.

_"That_ could've used a warning, damn!"

"You complaining?" Eric echoed.

"Not really." Viggo sat up again and shifted his weight, then slid the rest of the way down until his ass bottomed out against Eric's pelvis, a long, slow slide that had Eric moaning again.

"There we go." Viggo stared down at him, his gaze intense and devouring, then started to move, fucking himself.

He was still holding Eric pinned. Eric had to move, needed to move, to touch and feel and hold, but when he tried to pull free, he found he couldn't. He still wasn't using his full strength, but Viggo clearly meant to hold onto him unless he did.

It was... weird, but hot. Since he _could_ get away, it was voluntary, like he was agreeing to let Viggo hold onto him, and because it was his choice, he could get into it, let himself feel what a turn-in it was to just let someone else be in charge of giving him pleasure. Eric was usually careful to be a generous lover, putting in the effort to make sure his partner had a good time. But Viggo didn't seem to want that, at least not at the moment, and if letting Viggo have a good time meant letting him control what happened -- even if he wanted to control what Eric did and felt -- then Eric was willing to let him have it.

He sank into the feelings, the hot-tight-slick-friction-faster-tease-bite-zing feelings, free to focus on himself and his body and watch the guy who was taking him over the edge and into freefall. Shining blue eyes were the last thing he saw before the pleasure surged up and forced rational thought completely out of his brain.

 

Thursday took Eric to a shabby industrial block for an audition. It was a third-round call-back, and he sat in one of the metal folding chairs with a few dozen other tall, brawny actors, plus a few dozen busty, sexpot type actresses, all trying to get lucky in a Rising Tide film. RT was only a few years old, but they'd got some buzz on the festival circuit and industry analysts thought they were poised for a hit. Eric -- and every other struggling actor within a hundred miles of LA -- wanted his name on their posters when they did it. If they did it. They might not, of course, but that's what it took to make it in the business -- trying over and over and over and hoping to luck out.

Eric and all his rivals there that day had already had more luck than most actors saw in a year, just making it that far through the audition process. Eric had a feeling about this one -- they were looking for an action type guy who could shoot the bad guys and romance the girl while doing some of his own stunts, and Eric was up for all that. So was every other guy waiting with him.

What gave Eric an edge, though, was that the hero was also supposed to be funny, at least enough to toss off wise-cracks and make some bad puns -- in character, on beat, without going over the top. That was comedy, and comedy was all timing and control of expression and body language through the arc of the joke, however long or short that might be. Hitting it right took experience, and Eric was pretty sure he had more comic experience than any of the body-builder types who were his competition.

He hoped so, anyway.

All he could do was sink into the character and give them his best, and that's what he did. When he was called in, an assistant pointed him to a clear spot in front of a long table lined with people along one side. Eric recognized the director, a couple of producers, an exec from Rising Tide, plus there were a couple of new faces.

They had him run through a scene with an assistant reading the other parts, then another similar scene. Then they brought in one of the actresses and had them do a scene together a couple of times. They paired him up with four other actresses for the same scene, and by the time they were done Eric was ready to fall into bed, and was pretty sure he'd be dreaming the scene over and over when he did.

On Friday morning, Viggo called him up at an ungodly hour and said, "Wanna get some coffee?"

Eric squinted at the clock on his nightstand and was ready to say "Fuck no," only not quite so polite. But then he remembered how early he'd gone to bed and realized that he actually _was_ ready to get up.

"Okay," he mumbled into the phone. "When? Where?"

"Give me your address and I'll pick you up in twenty minutes. Sounds like you shouldn't be driving yet."

Eric managed to recite his address with minimal errors and repetitions, then hung up and stumbled out of bed, heading for the shower.

When the doorbell rang, Eric was dressed and working on getting his hair dry. He tossed the towel aside and headed for the door.

"Hey, morning." Viggo gave him an appreciative glance up and down, then tilted his head back toward the parking lot. "C'mon, I'll drive."

Eric grabbed his jacket, then said, "Sure, good. Morning," and was kind of proud of himself for managing to be polite _and_ remember the jacket.

"You really need coffee, don't you?" Viggo grinned and steered Eric over to his car with a hand at the small of his back. "Feel free to nap on the way."

"Nap? Where we going? There's coffee right up the street."

"We're going for _good_ coffee."

Eric buckled in and decided to enjoy the ride. Which was just as well, because forty minutes later they were winding along up the coast, passing mostly cliffs and surf and the occasional house. The scenery was great, but it seemed a little over the top for a going-for-coffee type trip. The weather was overcast and gray, and they drove through occasional drizzles and one good shower.

Viggo eventually turned off on a side road that headed out closer to the water, then drove another five minutes to a cluster of weathered wooden buildings and parked. "Coffee."

"This'd better be some bloody good coffee," Eric muttered, but he gave Viggo a smirk and a smack on the shoulder while they walked up to one of the buildings. It had a flaking sign outside that said Gull's Nest Cafe.

The area was pretty and the air was fresh. Eric had come awake enough to be able to appreciate the trip, even if he still thought it was kind of silly to drive for... he checked his watch and snorted. Almost an hour and a half away to get coffee.

They headed inside and Viggo said, "Hey, Rachel."

"Hey, Viggo. You made good time." Rachel was a middle-aged woman with short, graying hair, wearing a sweatshirt and a knitted hat, which she needed because the cafe was chilly. There was a big brown bag on the counter in front of her, and she pushed it over toward the two men.

"Not much traffic," said Viggo. He handed her some money and took the bag. "This is Eric. He's still half asleep, but he's usually a nice guy."

Rachel laughed and Eric glared. "I'm more than awake enough to be nice," Eric said. He gave Rachel a big smile and said, "Great to meet you."

"Ooo, an Aussie! Love the accent!" Rachel gave him a flirty look, then said, "Viggo always finds the cute ones."

"Down, girl," said Viggo with a grin. "How're they doing this morning? Good day for watching?"

"Great!" said Rachel with a smile. "At least half a dozen pups now."

"Awesome, thanks for the call."

"Welcome! Have fun!"

They said goodbye and Eric followed Viggo out the door. Viggo would've kept going, but Eric clamped a hand on his shoulder and said, "Coffee?"

Viggo snickered, but set the bag down on one of the battered tables out on the porch. He dug an extra-large, insulated cup of coffee out of the bag and handed it to Eric. "There's sugar in here somewhere, and pumpkin muffins. Are you a milk person? I should've asked -- if you want milk, we can go back in."

"Nah, just some sugar's fine." Eric doctored his coffee the way he liked it, then took a good slug and felt life seeping into all the cells of his body. He knew it was mostly psychosomatic and didn't give a damn. He dug a muffin out of the bag and took a bite. Pumpkin wasn't something he'd have chosen, but it was good -- moist and pumpkiny, with ginger and cinnamon, and pumpkin seed bits sprinkled on top.

"All organic," said Viggo, waving a muffin of his own. "Rachel grows her own pumpkins at home, then purees most of them and freezes it so she can make muffins for the next few months."

"Good stuff," Eric agreed, taking another bite. "So, coffee and muffins? Do you come up here every morning?" He was only half joking; the other half was wondering whether Viggo might actually go that far up the coast for coffee regularly. Rachel certainly seemed to know him.

"Not every morning, but sometimes." Viggo stuffed the bag into his car, grabbed a camera and hung it around his neck by its strap, then said, "Come on," and headed off down a dirt path with his own coffee in one hand and his muffin in the other. Eric followed, twice as glad he had his jacket.

The path led out to the edge of the cliff over the beach, then turned to run along it. There was a weathered rail fence right up at the edge, but Eric wouldn't want to have to trust it if he tripped and needed to grab something that'd hold his weight.

The surf pounded into the base of the cliffs, sending white, salt-scented spray fountaining up nearly to the level of the path.

"Someone have puppies out this way?" Eric asked. "You thinking of getting one?"

Viggo sent a grin over his shoulder and said, "Yes and no. Hang on, we're almost there."

They walked another couple hundred meters before the breeze brought a far-away barking sound. Whatever was barking, there were a lot of them. And because he wasn't _completely_ thick, by the time Viggo stopped and pointed down to the beach below, Eric knew they weren't there to see dogs.

A rocky beach stretched out below the cliffs, an isolated curve tucked into the base of an inlet. The beach petered out in sheer cliffs on both sides, and Eric didn't see any path leading down; it was isolated unless you had either a boat, or a sturdy rope and decent abseiling skills.

Which was just as well because clustered on the beach were about thirty seals, including the half dozen seal pups Rachel had mentioned.

"Do they come here to give birth?" asked Eric. He was leaning on one of the sturdier fence posts and couldn't stop smiling.

"Yeah, some of 'em. The big event for elephant seals is up at Año Nuevo, but a few come here every year." Viggo'd finished his muffin on the way, and he set his coffee on the ground so he could use his camera.

The click-click-click reminded Eric of their photo session, which reminded him of that night, which helped warm him up in the chilly wind.

The seals were mostly huddled on the beach, adults Eric assumed were the mothers minding their pups. Some of the bigger ones were barking at each other with deep voices, and occasionally a couple of them would come together in a scuffle over territory or females or whatever else huge seals had to argue over.

Eric sipped his coffee and finished his muffin, alternately watching the seals and watching Viggo. He moved up and down the railing -- standing, kneeling, lying down, getting every possible angle and fiddling with what Eric assumed was the zoom on his lens. Most of his photos were of the seals, but he aimed his camera out at the ocean, too, and up at the sky, and back at the rugged landscape, and at Eric.

They stayed out for over an hour, watching the seals and each other, before they hiked back and went to get breakfast. Which wasn't as much of an adventure as going for coffee had been, but Eric enjoyed it anyway.

He enjoyed dinner Saturday night, too, which had begun with an invitation to go for a walk. The "walk" had been a winding ramble that must've been at least a couple of miles long through West Hollywood. They stopped at a Chinese place for steamed buns as an appetizer, a diner for the best beef-barley soup Eric had ever had, a food truck for spicy fish tacos, a butcher shop with a take-out counter for fajitas, a fancy restaurant Eric was barely dressed for to get a mixed-vegetable gratin that made the stop much less of a waste than Eric had originally expected, and a tiny bakery for really awesome cheesecake brownies.

Eric figured if Viggo ever invited him to go for a hike, he should run out and buy a set of pitons and an ice axe.

Sunday morning, Eric's phone woke up the both of them by playing the chorus from Abba's "Money, Money, Money." It was his agent's ringtone and Eric struggled to untangle himself from both the bedclothes and Viggo before fumbling through his trousers -- found halfway under the bed.

"Annie, morning," he said, managing to enunciate well enough to be understood, at least by his agent, who'd known him for three years. "What's up?"

"Hey, Eric, I've got a late Christmas present for you. I just heard from Rising Tide -- they want you for Matt."

"They-- whoa! That's awesome!" Eric flopped back onto the mattress with what he was pretty sure was a really stupid grin on his face.

"Damn right. I e-mailed you a PDF of the contract. I made some notes on it, but it looks good. Read it, call me with any questions, and be ready to sign next Tuesday. Carol's taking us to lunch, and Larry'll probably be there."

Larry Burkhardt, the director, had been at Eric's second and third auditions, but Eric hadn't really had a chance to talk to him. Going to lunch with him would be a great opportunity to start getting to know him and get a feel for what it'd be like working with him. "I'll get right on it as soon as I'm home. Next Tuesday at noon?"

Viggo touched Eric's shoulder and muttered, "What's up?"

Eric turned his head and said, "Nothing, business," most of his attention still on his phone.

"Eleven-thirty," Annie said. "I included the address in the e-mail." She paused a moment, then said, "You going out with a guy, Eric?"

"Uh, yeah, I met someone recently. Why?"

She sighed. "That's an issue. There's a morality clause in the contract, and from what I've heard, RT doesn't negotiate on those."

"A morality... so wait, what does that mean? I can't have a boyfriend while I'm working for them? They're aware this is the twenty-first century, yeah?"

"One of their major backers is a conservative Christian whose older brother is in politics -- they piss him off and the whole production company crashes. Look, it's not that you can't have a boyfriend, but you're going to have to stay in the closet. We've talked about this before, and nothing's changed in the business since then."

"Right, I know, but.... Shit. It's just, it wasn't a big deal before. I mean, pick-ups and casual stuff... I didn't care, they weren't really important. But now--"

"Now you've met someone important? Damn, Eric, your timing stinks." She made a low humming noise Eric recognized as her thinking mode. Eventually she said, "I can't decide for you; this is your choice. I'll say that this could be a major turning point in your career. I'll also say that, twenty-first century or not, it's not going to be much different anywhere else. There won't always be a contract clause that specifically prohibits you from being out, but if you do come out it'll affect what parts you get. You know that."

"Yeah, I know, I do. It's just... fuck."

He did know that. That was why he hadn't wanted his face to show on that calendar; he'd explained it to Viggo, and he certainly understood the business himself. He _knew_ he couldn't be out if he wanted a shot at the kind of career he'd been working for.

It still sucked, though. He hadn't really noticed when he'd started thinking of Viggo as a potential boyfriend instead of just a good looking guy who was great in bed, but somewhere in there it'd happened.

Nothing might come of it -- he had no idea what page of the manual Viggo was on; did he want to sabotage his career for something that might be nothing? But what if it _was_ something?

"I'll think about it," he finally said. "I'll look over the contract, and decide what I want to do. I'll let you know before the meeting."

"You think hard," she said. "If you're going to come out, whether it's for your current guy or for someone else or just on principle, that'll change our career strategy."

"I know, I know. Thanks, Annie. I'll talk to you later."

He disconnected and tossed the phone back down onto his crumpled trousers.

Viggo sat up, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, and said, "Problems?"

"Yeah. No, but yeah. Usual stuff. It just didn't...." Eric trailed off and turned to look at Viggo. "Can I ask you something that'll make you think I have no social skills at all?"

Viggo grinned. "Sure. Not like mine are all that great -- ask anyone who knows me."

"You're eccentric," said Eric, who found himself grinning. "This is just... kind of pathetic."

"I get it, you're about to embarass yourself. So shoot."

Eric glared at him, then looked away. "Okay, so, we just met recently, but I've been having a good time, and not just in bed. I think this thing, whatever it is, has... potential. So I was wondering if you agreed, or if it was just sort of--"

"So what you mean is, do I like you, circle yes or no?"

Eric could tell from his tone that Viggo was grinning at him. Eric clenched his jaw and said, "Yeah, I guess."

"Yes."

Eric waited, then said, "That's it?"

"Yes, I do like you. I've been having fun too; that's why I asked you out for coffee and dinner. You're a good guy, you don't have a stick up your ass, you're not full of yourself like a lot of hot actors, and the sex is great. So yes, I agree, this whatever-it-is has potential."

"Oh. Okay, good." It was awesome, really, except it didn't solve his immediate problem. It would've actually been easier if Viggo'd said no, that it was just a few days of hanging out and fucking. Which wouldn't have been _good,_ but--

"So what's up? I assume your phone call is what brought all this up?"

"Yeah. That was my agent, I have an offer of a part. It's not a big movie, like expected to be a blockbuster or anything, but it could be a springboard to bigger things, you know?"

Viggo nodded. "That's good news. I take it our 'thing' is an issue?"

"Yeah." Eric pulled his legs back up onto the bed and flopped down on his back, staring at the ceiling. "It's always been an issue in this business, but in this case there's a morality clause in the contract, and one of the production company's major backers considers being gay to be immoral. I've always been discreet, but I'd have to be completely in the closet for the duration of the contract."

"That sounds pretty much like what you've been doing."

Eric sighed. "Except that now... now I need to know if that's okay with you."

"With me? Sure. I promise I won't throw all your stuff out the window if you don't take me to the Oscars as your date."

Eric poked Viggo in the stomach, getting an "Oof!" out of him. "I doubt that'll be an issue. It's more that we'll have to be careful in public. We won't even be able to be seen together much, unless I get a beard or something. I mean, I _could_ \-- Annie has a client who's a lesbian and we've gone out a couple of times when Jerrie had paps following her. This time it'll be for me, though, and if we're both covering, it'll probably need to be turned into a bigger production, you know?"

"I do know," Viggo said. He still sounded calm, which was good, mostly. "I've probably worked in this town longer than you, and you're not the first actor who's done modelling to pay the rent in between parts. I know a lot of people in the industry and I do get it. I think the question is whether _you_ can handle it. I've seen guys go down that road before. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. You'll be on stage twenty-four-seven, with no breaks. That tends to grind a person down."

Eric could imagine it. If the movie just sank then it wouldn't matter much because no one would be paying any attention to him. If it was a success, though, if there were other successes after it, the better Eric's career went, the more thoroughly he'd have to play the part of a straight guy who ogled tits instead of cocks.

He'd known it, but had never really _faced_ it before.

Viggo leaned down and kissed him, drawing one gentle finger across Eric's cheekbone. "You think about it. It's your life, and you need to be the one at the wheel." Then he got up and started rummaging around in his dresser for clothes.

 

Eric spent the rest of the day at home, reading his contract and thinking and pacing.

In a way, having a week and a half to think about it just made it worse. If he had to decide fast, right then, he'd just... well, decide _something_ and then it'd be over with and he'd be committed. But with a week and a half to consider it, he'd drive himself around the bend before it came down to the wire.

He'd already changed his mind half a dozen times. The idea of being completely closeted, of having a fake girlfriend -- eventually, probably -- as a regular thing rather than just occasionally was repulsive. Having to look over his shoulder all the time, having to make sure all the blinds were closed before he kissed his boyfriend in his own living room.... He knew a lot of guys lived like that, and women too, but the thought of doing it himself? For years?

At the same time, the only thing forcing him to make a decision right then was Viggo. Eric could face the idea of living closetted for a couple of years, through filming and the release and promotion, on his own. If he were still single, it'd be no decision at all -- he'd take this step in his career and accept that he wouldn't be able to come out publicly for a few years. If he made it big, he'd have a better chance of weathering a coming-out storm later, when he wouldn't be in breach of contract. If he came out while he was unknown, he wouldn't even get a chance to _approach_ the big, fancy doors, much less to walk through.

Later was always there, was always another chance. Except he didn't have later.

Or maybe he did. Because Viggo hadn't seemed terribly concerned one way or the other about what Eric did. Eric was pretty sure he'd be willing to strike out and wave the rainbow flag if he had a reason, but he wasn't sure he had a reason.

What if he made an irrevocable step and then Viggo said it's been fun, see you sometime?

Fuck it. Eric changed into shorts and a T-shirt and headed to the gym. Maybe some mindless sweating would bring the answer out.

 

Monday evening was beer and bullshit night. Eric got together with some friends, other comedians, to drink and hang and try out new material. That week they were at Ross Chang's place, a cheap apartment near UCLA where, as Ross said in his act, you didn't need a clock 'cause the gunshots went off every hour and the sirens every half hour.

Eric was standing in the center of a circle of seats and saying, "So Oi've got this new friend, roight? He calls me up at some ungodly hour and says, 'You wanna get some coffee?'" Eric always cranked up the Aussie accent when he was performing; it won him some points with audiences, who seemed more willing to laugh at someone who talked funny. "So Oi haul my arse outa bed an' he picks me up and we start driving. And we're driving and we're driving and pretty soon we're clear out of LA and heading up the coast, and Oi'm thinking, what, did someone poison Los Angeles's coffee supply?"

He paused and got a few grunts and smirks out of the gang, which was pretty good for them, 'cause pros were always a tough audience.

"So we end up in a woid spot in the road at the top of a cliff, in a little cafe barely hanging onto the last piece of dry land on this end of the continent. I thought as soon as we walked in the extra weight would send the whole building crashing down into the surf, roight? But no, the owner thought of that. They had a couple of employees who, the second we came in the door, dashed out from behind the counter and ran over to our soid of the room while we walked back to the register." Eric illustrated the dashing and walking and crossing in the middle with sweeping gestures as he talked. "So they were, like, counterweights, roight? They got minimum wage to make sure everything balanced -- the owner said the insurance company'd sent 'em over, 'cause it was cheaper than paying to replace the building."

That one got groans and eyerolls. "No? Okay, I'll come up with something else for that bit." Eric scribbled a note on his pad, then continued.

"So a few days later he calls up and asks if Oi wanna grab some dinner with him. Oi say foin, and he comes to get me. And we're driving and we're driving and pretty soon we've left LA and we're driving through the countryside, and Oi'm thinkin', what, did the Health Department crack down on all the restaurants in LA or something?"

"That's a good guess," said Stacy with a smirk.

"It'll happen one day, you watch," added Ross. "The perfect storm of cockroaches."

"Some day, sure, but it hasn't happened yet, 'cause me friend is driving along and pulls onto this dirt road, and a few miles later we stop at what looks like an army camp or something, with a couple huts and a big tent all in camouflage, and I'm thinking, damn, we drove three hours to eat army food?" Eric made a disgusted face and rolled his eyes.

"But believe it or not, that would've been preferable to what we had, 'cause what this was, was a survivalist type of training camp. You know, places you can go to learn to shoot a machine gun or set traps with hand grenades or drive tanks...? That kinda place? Could be fun, roit? But we were there to eat, so this pot-bellied guy in khaki hands us a full color pamphlet and points us out to the bush. We spent the next two hours foraging for food." Eric waited a beat, then said, "Did you know spoidas are edible? No joke. You use your pocket knoife to remove the poison glands from their arse and then you pop 'em in your mouth by the handful. They're just like cherries, except they're crunchier and they have eight stems."

That got a chorus of groans and a couple of barf noises and even some actual laughter. Eric smirked and waited for the noise to die down.

"So me friend, he asked me if Oi wanted to meet him next Saturday and go for a walk." He waited about a second and a half, then said, "Oi've got a set of pitons and an ice axe on order."

Eric took a bow to more groans. A couple of people gave him a few claps, which was awesome. They spent the next fifteen minutes or so tearing it all apart, and Eric scribbled a lot of notes on his pad, ideas to tighten it up and improve the flow and the timing. Then he sat down and it was Morty's turn.

Even if nothing else came of it, Viggo'd given him some good material.

 

Viggo sort of invited himself over for dinner on Tuesday. Not really in the sense of, "Hey, I'm coming over for dinner, make something nice," but they'd been talking on the phone and the conversation had wound around this and that and they'd just sort of agreed that they wanted to keep talking and that they were both getting kind of hungry, and putting those together resulted in Viggo coming over with a bottle of wine and platter of tamales. Eric had ice cream in the freezer, and that was dinner.

The subject of Eric's upcoming decision to either come out of the closet or lock himself in for a few years never came up. They'd both circled around it as effectively as if they'd agreed ahead of time. They had plenty to talk about -- Viggo'd been out at dawn taking pictures of things with frost on them, leaves and tree bark and window screens and whatever else, plus he filled Eric in some on the upcoming catalog shoot -- and everything had been perfectly mellow and comfortable. They'd just stayed away from that one gap in the future.

They cleaned up and had a couple beers, then fell into bed for sex. When they were all panting and sweaty an hour and a bit later, Eric asked, "You leaving?"

Viggo said, "Nope. Staying right here." And he did.

Eric lay awake listening to Viggo breathe and wondering if he was a complete nutter for wanting to read more into that statement, because seriously, how pathetic could a man get?

 

The next morning, Viggo and Eric headed to the studio together and opened up. Viggo loaded his cameras while Eric, who'd carried in a couple of flats of water, stuffed the bottles into the fridge in the corner. There were a bunch of cardboard boxes sitting against a wall next to the prop tables and Viggo pointed out which ones they'd need for that day. Eric saw that a bunch of the boxes had DONE scrawled on them in marker; Viggo must've been working with other models Monday and Tuesday.

"A lot of these things need basic item photos," Viggo said, waving a bright blue silicone dildo as an example. "I'll do those after; it's assembly line work. Wearables need to be modeled -- that's where you and the others come in."

Eric held up a French maid's dress with a noticeably flat front and said, "You mean like this? I'm pretty sure it won't fit me. I'm _hoping_ it won't fit me!"

Viggo laughed and said, "Yeah, I've got a couple guys who are a pretty standard size large; I have them do most of the fitted clothes. Some of it's stretchy, though, and some of the sizing is more forgiving; you'll be getting in and out of spandex bikinis and thongs tomorrow."

"Christ, you're not joking, are you?" Eric had to laugh, and was trying to figure out how to use the idea of a bloke his size modeling spandex thongs in his act. "Better than having to model one of these." He waved a set of anal beads with little smiley faces on them -- the smiles got wider as the beads got bigger, which Eric had to admit was clever, if you were the sort of person who liked a good laugh in the bedroom.

Eric was that sort of person, actually, but he'd still just as soon not have to have his picture taken with the beads in his bum.

They were almost done sorting through the items when there was a loud knock on the door, then it slid open and a gorgeous young man came striding in. He said, "Hey, Vig! Hi, new guy!" while pulling off a knitted hat and scarf and peeling out of a leather jacket.

"Hey, Orlando. This is Eric. Eric, Orlando." Viggo made introductions over one shoulder while tossing tubes of lube into one box and fluffy handcuffs into another.

Eric waved and Orlando gave him a looking over, accented with a flirty grin. "I get to pose with you today? All this and they pay me too -- I must've been an extra good boy this year."

Eric let his eyes go big and round and said, "Woyte, you get _pied?_ Loik, real _money?_ Voiggo!"

Orlando collapsed into a chair, giggling, and Viggo turned around to glare at them both, but he couldn't maintain and started cackling. "Damn, Orlando, you had to blab! Now I'll have to pay _him_ too!"

They all cracked up, and Viggo gave Orlando a play swat upside the head. Orlando smacked him back, then ducked out of range and hid behind Eric.

Viggo smirked and turned back to the prop tables. Orlando peeked out from behind Eric's shoulder, then said, "Heh. Crazy old man." He looked up at Eric with a grin. "You do a great Aussie accent."

Eric grinned back and said, in perfect deadpan American, "Nope, I do a great Yank accent."

"You're actually from Australia? Cool."

"All right," said Viggo, "Enough socializing. Here, go get changed and let's do some work." He handed Orlando a silky looking poet's shirt and a vest made of fake leather patchwork. Eric got a solid fake-leather jerkinish thing and a bandana.

Eric followed Orlando into the partitioned space in the corner. It was set up as a changing room, with a bench and a clothes rack and an empty bookcase. They got dressed, then headed back out. Eric felt a little silly, but Orlando jogged over to a set with a pale blue backdrop where Viggo had lights on and a row of cameras at hand on a table, and saluted. "Arrr, Cap'n, reporting for duty!"

Viggo grinned and tilted his head at Eric. "He's your captain -- attention on Eric." He positioned Eric where he wanted him, standing just slightly off center, then balanced it with Orlando. "Eric, look haughty and a little evil. Orlando, worshipful."

Eric thought, Okay, pirate, scourge of the seven seas, and drew himself up to his full height, arms crossed across his chest. The sleeveless jerkin set off his broad chest and muscled arms, he knew, and that seemed to be what Viggo was looking for.

Orlando said, "Oh Captain, my Captain," with a flirty smile, and draped himself against Eric's side, letting the camera capture most of Eric's outfit. Viggo clicked off a couple of shots, then Orlando put a hand on Eric's left biceps, showing that his fingers could barely wrap around half of it. Click-click-click.

"Orlando, face front."

Orlando obeyed, turning to face the camera while leaning against Eric's chest. Eric put an arm around his waist and the other on his shoulder, looking down at his "crewman" with a small smile. He knew the attitude would communicate all the way down his body, and show even without his face in the picture.

"Good." Click-click-click.

They went through more costumes -- doctor and patient, riding outfits complete with crops, cowboys, construction workers, cops, soldiers, firemen... everything Eric had ever seen fetishized in gay porn and a few he'd never thought of. They wrapped up with biker outfits right before lunch.

Eric changed back into his own clothes, then huffed out a sigh and flopped down into a chair. "Damn, this is hard work. I'll stick with acting, thanks."

"Most models I know want to act," said Orlando. "But doing both means eating twice as often." He sat down next to Eric and took a slug out of a bottle of water. "Been in anything?"

"Some walk-ons, a couple of commercials. I had a minor supporting in Bayou Demon -- not exactly an Oscar contender, but it paid some bills."

Orlando nodded. "I've done some stage work. I prefer the theater, but there's not as much opportunity unless you're willing to work for peanut shells, which my landlord won't take for some reason."

"I hear you." Eric watched Viggo reloading cameras for a minute, then said, "We going to lunch together, or foraging on our own?"

"Let's go to Green Village," said Orlando. "They have a great soup and salad bar."

"Whatever you two want to do," said Viggo. "I'll be done here in a few."

They ended up in a not-quite-vegetarian place Eric had never been to before. Their bean and ham soup was good and hearty; Eric had two bowls of that and two plates of salad.

"I wish I could eat like that," Orlando said with a smirk. He'd gotten the vegetarian squash soup and visited the salad bar once. He was slender enough, Eric imagined it'd be easy to overdo it and then all his modelling work would dry up and blow away.

"Hey, it takes a lot of fuel to maintain this body!" Eric flexed his arm and put on a fatuous, in-love-with-himself look. Viggo smirked and Orlando laughed.

"No wonder you're so desperate for work -- it probably costs a thousand a month just to keep you in groceries."

"Not quite, but sometimes it seems close." Eric rolled his eyes and took a big bite of salad.

"You know, I have a friend who's trying to get a film made, he does little independent things, but he's working on a project about returning veterans and he's looking for some soldier types." Orlando poked his fork across the table at Eric and added, "I could give him your number if you want to try for it."

"Sure," said Eric. "That'd be great, thanks." It never hurt to have more work lined up, and an independent film might not get out the gate for a year or two or even longer, depending on how long it took to line up financing. He dug a card out of his pocket and handed it to Orlando. "If you're ever interested in TV or movies, let me know and I'll give you my agent's number. You do a good job getting into character, and you've definitely got the looks."

"Thanks. I... it's not something I've dreamed of, you know? But expanding on possibilities makes it easier to pay bills."

"Amen to that," said Eric, and he toasted Orlando with his iced tea glass.

 

The afternoon was devoted to less costumey, more fetishy shots. Viggo put Eric into an outfit that consisted mainly of a set of leather straps across his chest and arms and a fake-leather half mask. He'd had Eric bring his biker boots, and he had a set of leather pants for him.

"Those are rented," Viggo said. "Don't mess them up."

Orlando was the one going through multiple changes for the rest of the day, modelling different styles of bondage gear. Viggo shot him alone sometimes, and at other times with Eric playing Dom.

Some time after three, they took a short break for water (for the models) and camera reloads (for the photographer) and Orlando said, "How come I'm always the bottom? I think Eric should have a turn on his knees."

Eric was pretty sure he was joking, or at least half joking, but Viggo looked up and gave Eric an intense stare, then Orlando, then Eric again.

"All right," he said. "We'll shoot a few like that and see how they turn out."

"Hah!" Orlando did a fist-pump, then grinned at Eric. "It'll be fun having you at my feet."

"Hell, even kneeling I'll be taller than you," Eric shot back.

"Are not!" Orlando laughed and splashed some water at Eric. Eric retaliated, until Viggo called, "Rented pants! Cut it out!"

They chorused, "Yes, Sir!" then looked at each other and cracked up again.

"Why did I think having you two together would be a good idea?" Viggo grumped.

"'Cause the really good photographers are all crazy," Orlando shot back.

Viggo snorted and said, "Point."

When it was time to get back to work, he had Orlando put on the black jeans he'd come in wearing, and his leather jacket over his bare chest. Eric lost the leather pants, got a fake leather jockstrap in its place, and kept the half mask. They spent the next couple of hours with Eric modelling the binders, spreader bars, and a bondage bench, while Orlando played Dom with floggers, paddles, vampire gloves and his bare hands.

Finally, Viggo said, "Okay, good day's work. I'll e-mail some proofs of these shots to Stan and Mike and see if they like the role reversal. I think they will, but if not then I'll schedule another half day to redo those items with Orlando on the bottom."

"I think they'll go for it," said Orlando, who was working on another bottle of water. "Not all Doms are big, brawny guys, and there are plenty of big, brawny guys who are bottoms and appreciate seeing guys who look like them in that role. Breaking the stereotypes will get the catalog talked about."

"Likely," Viggo agreed. "I'll let you know."

Orlando de-sweated with paper towels, then got back into his street clothes, waved to Eric and gave Viggo a kiss on the cheek before taking off. Eric dawdled a little, wanting some time with Viggo, and wondering whether he'd want to go get dinner or something.

He copied Orlando with the paper towels before getting dressed, then wandered over to the tables to help Viggo, who was sorting through items again.

They packed all the costumes into boxes and taped them up and wrote DONE on them, then stacked them out of the way. Most of the toys stayed out, though.

"Didn't we shoot all this stuff today?" Eric asked.

"Yeah, but we'll do most of it again with you or another model alone," Viggo said. "I'm just the photographer; Mike puts the catalogue together. He gave me notes on what kinds of shots he wants, but he likes having a variety. Any given item that's being modeled might be shown with one model or two, depending on how the shots turn out and what Mike wants to do with a page."

Eric nodded and said, "Okay, makes sense. Wouldn't it be cheaper to just do one shot of each item, though?"

"First, we never take just one shot. You always take multiples and choose the best one. Amateurs who are doing their own photography because they don't want to pay a pro are the only ones who think one shot is enough, and their finished product looks like it. In general, though, you're right -- it'd be cheaper to just decide ahead of time for each item whether we want it alone, or with one model or with two, and run through getting just those shots. I'm pretty fast, though, so taking multiples isn't as expensive as it might be with someone else.

"And Mike and Stan know their catalog sells for its photos as much as for what it advertises; they charge ten bucks for it, with a rebate if you buy something. Half their sales are to guys who don't want to buy anything -- they just want to look at the pictures." Viggo gave him a sideways smirk while packing a dozen styles of fake-leather cuffs into a box. "They make a lot of extra money because their catalog is good, and they want to keep it that way."

"So a few hundred guys are going to be wanking off to my picture, then?" said Eric. He wasn't really bothered by it, but it was sort of weird.

"Try a few thousand, but yeah. If you'd let me show your face, you'd be famous in a few months."

Eric snorted. "Thanks, but I'll pass. Not quite what I wanted, and definitely not what the producers want in their actors."

"Your choice," said Viggo, mellow and agreeable as always. "You looked good in the mask, so being shy won't hurt anything."

"Well, good, I'm glad."

Eric was still wondering what was up with Viggo. He just didn't seem to get very excited or upset about anything; he was like the ultimate even-tempered guy. Which could be good if you didn't want a lot of friction or drama in your personal life. Eric knew a few people who flew off the handle any time life wasn't perfect, which was practically all the time. That wasn't the kind of person Eric wanted to share his life with.

But _some_ excitement was good, right? Some passion? Some strong feeling one way or the other, to make a fellow feel like he matters at least a little, that you give a damn? Eric didn't know whether Viggo gave a damn, not really. He _said_ he "liked" Eric, and that their thing had potential, but there was none of the new-lover passion or intensity Eric was used to, at least not out of bed. He didn't know what to think, and he'd felt like enough of a dufus asking straight out the one time; he didn't want to ask again, like some teenager whining for constant reassurances.

He didn't know what to do and didn't want to look like a fool doing it, so he did nothing.

They finished packing up, tossed all the empty water bottles into the recycle bin, then headed out. While Viggo was locking up, he said, "Feel like dinner?"

Eric smirked and asked, "How far will I have to walk to get it?"

Viggo snickered. "No walking this time. You'll need to change, though -- coat and tie, or some appropriate substitute if you want to try to set your own style. A few people will be doing that; they always are."

"Where are we going, exactly?" asked Eric, who'd had enough experience with Viggo's invitations that he wanted to be sure he wouldn't actually _need_ pitons or an ice axe.

"Gallery opening. A friend of mine's got some pieces in the show, and Pritchett's always lays out a nice spread, small plates of foodie type food, like hors d'oeuvres on steroids." Viggo gave him a sly smile and added, "You could probably put on a mile or two walking around the gallery if you wanted to, but you could also find a seat somewhere and park, especially if we get there early."

"Oh." Eric thought about it and nodded. He wasn't really into modern art, but he'd been having some new experiences with Viggo; so long as he didn't actually have to eat spiders, he figured it'd be fun to try once. "Sure. Tux or just a suit?"

"Whichever you want," Viggo said. "You wouldn't be the only man there in a tux if you have one and want to wear it, if you want to make that big a splash."

"Suit it is, then. Art isn't my environment; I wouldn't want to give the wrong impression, then have folks decide I'm some pathetic poser."

"Wise choice," said Viggo. "Meet at my place in about an hour?"

"Sure," said Eric, "See you then," and they separated in the parking lot.

 

Pritchett's Gallery was a series of interconnected rooms laid out like a maze; Eric was pretty sure it was bigger than it seemed at first, possibly a lot bigger. He wandered through with Viggo, munching on this and that from the trays being circulated by young people all in black.

Viggo obviously knew about more than photography. They passed through the rooms, pausing to look at ink sketches, oils and acrylics, collages, and some "fiber art" that reminded Eric of the macrame hangings one of his aunts had hanging around her house, except more abstract and without any knotted owls.

Walking with Viggo reminded Eric of an art appreciation course he'd had at uni, only without the urge to snooze. Viggo was saying something about dynamic negative space and pointing to examples in the drawing they were looking at, when someone said, "Mortensen! Good to see you -- what've you been up to?"

Eric saw a man coming up behind Viggo, short and chubby, maybe fifty-something, in ski pants and a white turtleneck. Apparently this was one of the people who dressed to attract attention.

Viggo said, "Hey, Albie. What's up?" and gave the guy a one-armed hug, holding his glass of champagne out a safe distance with the other.

"Same as always," said Albie. "One of these days we're going to have to blow up all the studios and start over from scratch."

"Easier to start your own," said Viggo. "Less prison time that way."

"Oh, I suppose. Not as much fun, though."

Viggo snickered and said, "Well, don't expect me to bail you out. I'll bring you cigarettes, though; you can get anything on the inside if you have cigarettes to trade."

"Oh, thank you _so_ much." Albie gave Viggo an exaggerated scowl, then glanced at Eric and said, "Who's your friend? You obviously left your manners in your other pants again."

Viggo said, "Albie, this is Eric Bana. Eric, this is Albie Bronsen. Eric, Albie makes movies. Albie, Eric acts. Also models, which is how we met. You two could probably help each other out."

Eric tried hard not to flush at Viggo's blatant... well, it was too blatant to even be called schmoozing. He said, "Hello, good to meet you," and held out his hand.

Albie shook it while looking Eric over. "You certainly make a powerful physical impression. Can you actually act?"

"I'm not practicing my Oscar speech yet, but I've been working on the craft for a while. I had my own TV show in Australia for a couple of seasons -- sketch comedy."

"Built like an action star but with a comedy background? That's unusual." Albie dipped a hand into his pants pocket and held out a card. "Have your agent send me your file."

"I'll do that, thanks." Eric gave Albie a big smile and pocketed the card.

"Good, good." Albie nodded to Eric, then turned back to Viggo and asked, "So, what's worth buying here? You know my taste in art sucks rocks."

Viggo chuckled and they all wandered off, the conversation reverting to art. Eric hoped his grin wasn't _too_ big or stupid; he was trying his best to maintain.

 

They spent the night at Viggo's place, and it was just as much fun as it always was. The sex wasn't the problem -- it was fantastic. The problem was Eric's mental blithering about committment.

Not that he'd usually be thinking about any such thing when he'd known a bloke for less than two weeks, but the circumstances were rushing him. Annie was waiting for an answer, and the Rising Tide people were likely expecting him to sign on, with maybe a quibble or two about minor contract points. He had to decide, though, and within a few days. Time was pressing down on him, and whenever Eric thought about it, he felt a strong urge to just start driving and see if he could outrun all the conflicting pressures in his life.

He left Viggo's early the next morning, saying he needed a change of clothes, which was true enough. He also took some time to Google Albie Bronsen, and e-mail Annie, passing on the contact info from Albie's card.

Albert Bronsen was a maverick film maker who worked outside the big studios. He'd had a couple of box office hits, and half a dozen of his films had won awards Eric had actually heard of, mainly from film festivals. A little more digging showed that he'd worked with openly gay actors before.

Was that why Viggo'd taken him to the show? Had he known Albie would be there?

And did it make any difference if he did? Did it _mean_ anything? It could be a favor for a new friend, or it could be an attempt to give a new lover an alternative that'd let them stay together without having to hide for the next few years. Eric had no idea which it was, or might be, or whether Viggo was likely to have even thought about deliberately pulling strings like that.

A glance at the clock sent him scrambling out the door. Whatever else might be going on, he still had a job and didn't want to be late.

It was just him and Viggo that day, shooting pictures of items Eric wore or held. Eric was in those spandex thongs Viggo'd teased him about earlier, and spent most of the morning going from one bondage position to another.

Just as Eric was getting tired of being curled up, Viggo had him lie across a piece of furniture shaped like a half cylinder. It flexed his back the other way, and the stretch was a relief. There were cuffs attached to the thing at either end for his wrists and ankles, but his back felt so good he didn't care.

"You're too relaxed," said Viggo with a grin. "It's not nap time." He knelt down next to Eric and kissed him silly, while playing with one nipple with his fingers. Eric made a startled sound into Viggo's mouth, and reflexively tugged on all four cuffs, but he was stuck in place.

By the time Viggo stood up again, Eric was anything but relaxed, and his body was responding in a way that was kind of embarassing when there was a guy with a bunch of cameras in the room.

"Perfect," said Viggo, and he got back to shooting pictures. Eric hoped that the slightly frantic urgency he was feeling was something the clients would appreciate. He also hoped Viggo would be willing to help him out some time soon.

At least they didn't have to worry about him ruining a pair of rental pants that day.

 

That evening, Viggo had something to go do -- he mentioned something about a fire and Eric didn't ask because Viggo might actually tell him -- so Eric spent the night alone at home. He was feeling restless and moody, and ended up calling Ross.

They'd known each other since about two weeks after Eric arrived in the States, and had spent a lot of telephone hours listening to each other gripe and rage and vent and whine. Eric felt like doing most of those that night.

He explained what was going on, which took a while, then said, "So what do you think? Am I going mental? It seems like this should be a straightforward decision, right?"

"Nothing's straightforward when your brain and your heart and your prick are in conflict," said Ross. "Trust me -- it's the same for guys who are into women."

"Wow, thanks. Next time I'm looking for encouragement I'll know right where to come."

"Your problem is you're looking for some absolute, guaranteed answer. There aren't any. You just have to have faith."

"Come on, Ross, I'm not into that and you know it."

"I know you're not religious, but that's not the only kind of faith there is. Believing in yourself takes faith. Believing things can get better takes faith. Believing you can take action and _make_ things better takes faith. Do you have any of that kind of faith?"

"I...." Eric trailed off and thought for a bit. He hadn't considered any of that to be faith, but he could see where Ross was coming from. "I do. I mean, yes, I believe things can get better, especially if you work for it. But I don't know what to _do_ to make it better."

"What do you want?" asked Ross.

"What do you mean? I want to know what to do."

"No, what do you _want?_ If you could have your life be any way you wanted, if some genie gave you a wish, what would you want?"

"Well, let's start with all this homophobia bullshite going away. I want to be able to be myself in public and still get work, _good_ work, as far as my abilities will take me without people type casting me as the gay best friend. And I want this thing with Viggo to go somewhere and mean something. I want to be sure about what's what, instead of flailing around like I'm doing right now."

"Okay, that's what you want. So act like it's so."

"That's it? I should pretend the world is perfect? That's your advice? Good thing you're a comedian, is all I can say." Eric was half joking, but only half, because after all that, Ross's advice was a huge let-down.

"No, look -- you want things to be a certain way, right? If you act like they're not, then you're not helping them change. And you'll be in less of a position to take advantage of change when it comes. What if you get all famous and then come out later? There'll always be the sneering about how you were a chickenshit back when being gay was hard. If you're out, though, then when the world comes around to your way, you can just stare it down and say, 'What took you so long?'"

"Assuming it does come around to my way. That's the trick, ain't it?"

"The world _is_ changing, man. Come on -- fucking _Iowa_ has gay marriage. Who'd have imagined, huh?"

"California had gay marriage too, and couldn't hang onto it."

"Yeah, but the momentum is slowing down for the fucktards. I've got some Mormon friends, and they weren't happy about what their HQ did, messing around in politics like that, trying to slam a bunch of folks who never hurt anyone. Mormons are big on family, and gay people want to have families like everyone else. They had a petition going around protesting their church's involvement in Prop 8, and a _lot_ of rank-and-file Mormons signed it. If the church backs off, that's a huge chunk of the homophobic right's money gone -- poof."

_"If_ they back off. That's a pretty big if, Ross."

"Sure, but my point is that people are changing. Younger kids don't know why this is even an issue, and it's an issue for less and less of the country, even among older folks. It's gonna change. If you have faith that it _will_ change, you can be there to meet it."

"Easy for you to say," Eric muttered.

"Eric? Who are you talking to?" Ross sounded kind of pissed off, and he added, "How many Asian comedians do you know up at the top of the list? Margaret Cho and...?"

"She's not the only one," Eric protested. "There's Henry Cho, and Russ Peters, and... Lee, Bobby Lee...."

"Sure, but if you stopped people on the street and asked, whose names would they be able to come up with besides Margaret?"

"Yeah, you're right, but you're talking household name level."

"Damn right I am. Why's she the only one? How many white comedians are household names? If we listed them all we'd have to break for breakfast tomorrow morning, then maybe finish it off by lunch. There's a bunch of black guys too, household names, everyone's heard of them. And one of these days, Russ Chang's gonna be up there with 'em. I have faith that I can make that happen, and I work for it every day."

"But--"

"But nothing. That's what you're looking for -- you want to be a household name. If you didn't, you wouldn't give a shit whether the world changed. You'd be fine with comedy clubs and the occasional supporting role. That's not enough for you, though -- you want at least a chance at making it big. I do too. Right now, that's almost impossible for an Asian comedian. There are actually more gay actors who are household names than Asian comedians, but I'm still out there, waiting for the world to change. And when it does, I'm gonna say, 'What took you so long?' How about you, Eric? Where are you gonna be when the world changes?"

"I don't... shite. I know where I want to be, but I want to make good decisions on the way. It's a business, and you can't just dance around like it's dreamland and you can just wish upon a star."

"So don't wish. Act. Make it happen. Or don't, but then admit to yourself that your world is gonna suck forever and you're just making the best of it. Those are your choices -- pick one."

Eric snorted. "When did you get so damn philosophical?"

"All comedians are philosophers. We're the jesters of society, the thinkers, the only ones who can tell the king he's fucking up without getting our heads whacked off. You just need to start doing your job."

"I'd like to be able to eat in the mean time."

"Hey, it's your priority list. Just figure out what your priorities are, and own 'em. All this flailing bullshit isn't buying you anything."

"Yeah, yeah." Eric sighed. Joshing and snarking wasn't going to work that time; Ross was determined to turn him into a crusader. Eric wasn't sure he wanted to go charging out with his sword. "Thanks. I mean it. That's a lot to think about, you know?"

Ross sighed and said, "Fine, whatever works for you, man. See you Monday."

"Monday," said Eric, and they hung up. He knew Ross was disappointed that Eric hadn't picked up the gauntlet right away, but Eric wanted to be sure that if he did join the charge, it wouldn't be straight off a cliff.

 

Friday was his last day working with Viggo, at least on the catalog job. Viggo hadn't mentioned any others, and while Eric modeled silk boxers and leather armbands and a few fancy chain collars, he wondered whether that'd be it. They hadn't made any plans for the weekend, so maybe it was just a fling for the duration of the job?

On the other hand, Viggo didn't seem like the kind of guy who made plans way in advance. His invitations had usually been of the "Wanna go do this right now?" type, or maybe with an hour or so's notice, like the gallery show.

And... Eric finally realized that all the invitations _had_ come from Viggo.

Eric had never invited Viggo anywhere. That was... well, fuck, that was embarassing. Eric had been studying Viggo's actions, trying to figure out what they meant, what he felt or wanted, watching to see what Viggo said and did so Eric could figure out how to react. Viggo'd probably been thinking about Eric's actions too, and wondering whether Eric ever planned on taking the lead on, well, anything.

When they wrapped up for the day, Eric pocketed his check, then stayed to help straighten up again. When they were done, Viggo said, "Well, I guess that's--"

Eric cut him off with a kiss, slow and deep, with a full body press. He sank into it, letting himself forget all the bullshit and just feel, just enjoy being with the man in his arms. It was good, and he wanted more of it. He only wished he knew whether he could have that.

When he pulled back, he said, "Doing anything tonight?"

Viggo shook his head, and waited.

Eric reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ticket. "Come see my show tonight?"

Viggo gave him a bright smile and took it. "Sure. That'd be great, thanks. I haven't been to a comedy club in ages."

"There are some good folks playing tonight."

Viggo nodded. "Looking forward to it. See you after?"

"Sure. We can go get some dinner or something. I'm always too worked up to eat right before a show."

"That works," Viggo said with a nod. "I'll see you there."

"See you." Eric leaned in for another kiss, then left.

The four hours leading up to the show vanished in a haze of talking and pacing and last-minute fiddling with his new material. The wording had to be right, and the timing, and the way each gag flowed from the last and into the next. What if he fell flat? He always worried about new jokes and most of the time they were fine, but not always; no one got a hit every time.

What if he bombed the one time Viggo was there to see him?

Eric paced back and forth in his living room, practicing, trying to get it all just right. He knew he couldn't make any more significant improvements without audience feedback, but knowing didn't change the churning in his gut.

Finally he hit the shower, got dressed, and drove out to the club.

It was a medium size place out in Santa Monica. He'd played there before and mostly had good shows. He liked the audience there -- appreciative, discerning but not too tough. Some audiences were just nasty, but the Straight Line wasn't usually like that.

Of course, 'not usually' wasn't the same as 'never,' but Eric shoved that out of his mind.

He got there about twenty minutes before the show started, and he was the third performer on the list. He allowed himself one drink before a performance, and that night it was Scotch. Just one, to relax; more than that and his timing would fall apart.

When Viggo came in, Eric spotted him at once. He watched his lover move through the crowd and sit at a tiny table to one side, a couple rows back from the stage. Someone else came by, gestured at the chair, and Viggo nodded. The guy sat down and they started chatting.

Just as well; Eric wasn't in any shape to go over and talk just then.

Time dragged until the show started. The first comedian was an old-timer. Eric knew her casually, and enjoyed her routine. The second was a newbie; he was okay but still had some rough spots. He did a good job playing the audience, though; he could do well if he stuck with it.

Then it was Eric's turn and the MC announced his name. Eric put on a big smile and went bounding up the four steps and strode across to the microphone, waving at the audience.

He turned up his Aussie accent about six notches and said, "Evenin'! Moy, we do have a foin crowd of blokes and sheilas this evening, aye?" That was enough to clue most of the audience in that the guy up front talking weird was from Australia and not England; Yanks couldn't always tell unless you hit 'em over the head with it.

Eric scanned over the crowd and made eye contact with Viggo for a second. He was smirking, like he was enjoying the contrast between how Eric usually was and his stage persona. That was a good sign.

"Oi been listenin' and Oi thought those two were fair dinkum, no? Let's have another hand for me cobbers!" There was more clapping and some whooping, and Eric figured "fair dinkum" clued in the other ten percent who hadn't caught on to "sheilas." Foundation laid, he got on with it.

"As you foin folks might've noticed, Oi'm not from around here." Pause for some laughs and a few comments of the "no shit" variety, which Eric ignored. He barrelled on, his first few jokes old reliables about surprises for the new arrival in America and contrasts between the US and Australia. It was good material and he got laughs and whoops and groans and icks in the right places. He'd slipped into his groove and was cruising on the almost manic high he got when he was in front of an audience.

Every half minute or so he glanced at Viggo. He laughed along with the others, sitting back with his drink and looking downright admiring. Viggo caught him looking and raised his glass, giving Eric a bright smile and a nod.

Eric was almost half way through his routine; he'd get to the spot where he'd inserted his new material in about a minute. And suddenly it hit him that Viggo might not appreciate those jokes.

Fuck. He kept going on autopilot but behind the flow of words he was frozen. When he'd come up with the new jokes, it hadn't occurred to him that Viggo'd be there to hear them. Some people didn't like recognizing themselves in a comedian's material, even if they weren't named. Eric should've talked to him about it, should've thought before fucking inviting him. That was the problem -- he'd been feeling, not thinking.

He looked back at Viggo. The man's face was relaxed, mellow, full of absolute confidence in Eric.

Faith. Russ's words came up to the top of Eric's mind. Belief that things would get better and you could make it happen.

Maybe part of it was the performance rush, but Eric looked back out over the audience and had no doubts at all when he swung into his new material.

"So Oi've been here a little while now and Oi've met someone, roight? Oi've got this new boyfriend, and he calls me up at some ungodly hour and says, 'You wanna get some coffee?'"

A ripple of surprise went through the crowd at the word "boyfriend" but Eric kept right on going. Some heckler shouted "Faggot!" when Eric was looking right at him, but the guy's girlfriend smacked him and leaned over to whisper something harsh into his ear.

Eric kept rolling, and when he got to the line about "spoidas" being just like cherries but crunchier and with eight stems, the room lost it in a combination of laughter and "Eeewww!" Only one person's reaction was important at that moment, though, and Viggo was cracking up along with everyone else. Eric shot him a grin and Viggo grinned right back, with a forefinger drawn across his throat in promised retribution.

Eric went on with his routine, riding the crowd and the laughter and the high of it all. He wrapped it up to a cresting wave of applause, took his bow and left the stage smiling and waving.

While the MC introduced the next act, Eric slid through the crowd, heading for Viggo. He stopped here and there for people who wanted to say hi or ask for an autograph, but a couple of minutes later he'd arrived at his target. There weren't any empty chairs, so he squatted down next to Viggo's and whispered, "So, what'cha think?" with a huge grin.

Viggo smirked at him and smacked him upside the head, although not with his full strength, which Eric took as a good sign. "You were great," he whispered back. "But you're also going to pay for that. I think I should get at least half the take for inspiring your best jokes."

"Hah, as if, you wanker!" Eric leaned forward and kissed him, right there in the middle of the crowded club. Granted the lights were still low, but there were still folks watching him. Eric didn't care.

Eric shoved Viggo over and they shared a chair for the rest of the fourth comedian's act, then got up when he was done, when it'd be polite to head for the exit. They were almost at the door when a young woman put a hand on Viggo's arm and said, "Oh my God, you're his boyfriend?!"

Viggo grinned up at Eric, then said, "Yep, that's me," to the woman. Then he leaned in a little, like he was about to confide a secret, and said, "He was just making up the part about the spiders, though."

Eric, standing a little behind Viggo, shook his head vigorously, eyes wide and mouth twisted up, and raised his hand to make a wiggly-legs gesture with his fingers. The woman had a screechy giggle and she put both hands over her mouth while she laughed.

Viggo glanced up at Eric and poked him in the ribs. "You are _so_ getting it."

"Oi sure hope so!" Eric said, wiggling his eyebrows at the young woman. She giggled again and waved while they headed out the door.

Once they were out in the chill night, Viggo asked, "So, what did you want to do for the rest of the evening?"

Eric said, "Well, I figured I'd go get some dinner with my boyfriend, and then maybe spend the night at his place."

Viggo gave him a teasing grin. "Maybe your boyfriend would rather skip the dinner."

Eric slung an arm around Viggo's waist and said, "Maybe my boyfriend has a brilliant notion."

Viggo poked him again, and they chased each other out to the parking lot, hooting and laughing and shouting threats, and Eric was perfectly happy because the world was exactly the way it was supposed to be.


End file.
